


A Little Touch of Harry in the Night

by Grenegome



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Established Relationship, M/M, Sleep, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:39:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grenegome/pseuds/Grenegome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has had a long few days. Marcone helps him relax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Touch of Harry in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the sleepy/unconscious square of kink bingo.
> 
> ...possibly not the world's most relevant title but a) I hate naming things, and b) it makes me giggle.

Mab was getting her money's worth from Harry Dresden. I read some of his victories on the screen of my laptop-- Arial, size 10, Monoc’s corporate branding-- generally a few concise paragraphs that looked too commonplace to convey their content; _vanquished a dragon from Arctis Tor, found the necklace of Brisingrmen, tricked the Erlking off a cliff_. No pictures; Harry and his environs were hard on cameras.

I knew how he wore those victories, and the occasional defeat, without any technological assistance. I read them from Harry himself, staggering into my study in torn Winter frippery, tracking mud into the carpet, hair at manic, electrocuted angles.

There wasn’t any blood this time, and nothing looked broken. “Rough day at work, dear?” I asked, and turned back to my laptop. To my surprise, it didn’t object to Harry’s presence.

“Fkyah,” Harry said, and toppled himself face down on the sofa. He looked like a fallen tree.

“There’s a perfectly good bed upstairs,” I said, and then caught sight of the grime on Harry’s neck. It was shaped like finger prints, like something had grabbed him by the scruff and dragged him about, “...and a perfectly good shower.”

“Food.” Harry said to the sofa.

“Did you leave your manners in your other doublet?” I asked, and got a one fingered response. Harry followed up with a verbal request. “Pizza. Please. Scumbag.”

As a rule, I humor Harry’s _please_ s, in a wildly optimistic attempt at positive reinforcement, so I picked up the phone and ordered his usual from Pizza Spress. I got a clear, uninterrupted line; he really was burnt out.

“It’ll be ten minutes,” I said, and moved to get a closer look at those marks on his neck. He lifted his head, grinned up at me through messy hair. It was getting a little long, Mab’s preference rather than Harry’s, and I was awaiting the inevitable buzzcut of rebellion. “That’s long enough to clean you up, Sunshine.”

Harry squawked his dismay as I grabbed his shoulder, and I paused, thinking on hidden bruises, but it was a feint; Harry had me in his arms, rolling onto his back as he reeled me down on top of his muddy form, rubbing three days of bristle across my clean shaven chin, laughing as I attempted to elbow him in the ribs.

“Did you miss me?” he grinned, laying off the sandpapery affection with a kiss to my temple that turned straight into a yawn.

“Miss what? All your noise and dirt and inconvenience?”

“You did,” he said, still full of his grin, and then walked his fingers up my back to scrape just below my shoulder blades. It was the one place I was ticklish, but I didn’t oblige him by squirming; Harry made a bony mattress, I’d probably have an eye out.

“I certainly missed my dinner reservation on Tuesday.”

There was a moment’s silence, in which Harry managed to look both guilty and indignant. “I didn’t forget! I wanted to tell you I couldn’t make it, but I wasn’t allowed. Still can’t spill the details.” He mimed turning a key in the air beside his mouth, which might have been a playful emphasis, or a meaningful charade to tell me he was bound to silence.

“Anything a shower can fix?”

“Not the kind of charm you can wash off,” he sighed. “Though... Mmm. Hot water.” Harry lifted me up from his chest, still amused with his Knightly strength, and I stood, pulling him to his feet.

He pulled me in close again. “I was looking forward to dinner,” he murmured, and then bent down for a kiss, hard and deep enough to stir my interest before he pulled back with a smile. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, with a stupid waggle of his eyebrows which wasn’t sexy, my libido be damned.

I kept telling myself that as he strode off to the shower.

 

In wet hair, a Batman t-shirt, and a pair of boxer shorts, Harry inhaled most of a meat feast pizza. I helped myself to a piece. Not nutritionally approved, and not what I actually wanted at that moment, but the closest I could get to tasting Harry without disturbing his meal.

“Oh. Oh that was _good_ ,” he said, sprawling back on the sofa, one hand patting absently at his stomach. I watched him quietly, his legs kicked out, casually filling up space. “Hey, John,” he smiled. “Get over here.”

It was embarrassingly fast. Harry had me on my back, still mostly dressed, slacks pushed down around my thighs, his stubble rasping against my belly, my balls, driving me into a squirming little dance that tipped me straight over the edge.

Harry choked, spat, and came up coughing, full of the justified indignation of a man who hadn’t been warned. The apology stalled in my mouth, and I stared, embarrassed, until Harry’s cough turned into laughter. “Ok. Ok. I’m taking that as a compliment.”

I pulled him in, kissing it better, cupping Harry through his boxers as I mouthed at his neck, pushing him back into the cushions. I got a gasp for my efforts. Harry wasn’t always vocal, depending on his mood; right then all I was getting out of him was deep little breaths. I knew what he liked; set about jacking him with one hand, cradling his balls with the other, sucking on the head of his cock.

I got another deep breath from Harry, a murmur. I squeezed his cock a little firmer, expecting him to be harder by now, maybe making the occasional little thrust into my mouth.

He snored.

I looked up. Eyes closed, mouth open, Harry was really, quite determinedly, asleep. For a moment of halting pride, I seriously considered biting him.

I pulled off instead, embarrassed by the little slurping sound. I knew, rationally, this wasn’t an insult. Harry wasn’t bored of me, it wasn’t a commentary on my technique. He’d gotten me off first, been a gentleman, he was just exhausted. And still a bit hard.

I patted his balls companionably. “Harry?”

He huffed. I patted a bit harder. “Dresden. Time for bed.” Harry’s eyes shot open, he met mine and then froze.

“...John? Oh. Fuck.”

“You’d be lucky,” I said, and Harry covered his face with one giant hand, peeking through his fingers at me.

“I’m a terrible boyfriend. It’s not-- that was-- it’s not that it wasn’t nice.”

“ _Nice?_ ” I smiled, dagger sharp. Harry closed his fingers, eyes hidden from view. “Yeah. Nice. Lovely. Delightful. Just not as nice as sleep right now.”

He was a generous lover, always had been, and as entertaining as it might have been to demand he get off before nodding off, I didn’t like the dark smudges under his eyes or his pale cheeks. “Fine. Bed time.”

Harry uncovered his face. “Come with me?”

“It’s half eight,” I pointed out.

“Come with me anyway.”

 

Lying in bed with Harry wasn’t very restful. I’d expected him to crash as soon as his head hit the pillow, instead I was being cuddled by a tense, fidgeting yawner. “Thought you were tired.”

“I am,” he said, exhaling with a pitiful sigh. “I’ve been up for two and a bit days. Sort of. I think. There were a few time zones in there somewhere.”

“So relax.”

“Helpful.” He jostled me, turning over onto his belly and closing his eyes determinedly. His shoulders were still drawn up, one fist clenched, not very relaxed at all. “... _auuuuugh_.” He thumped the pillow.

I sat up, planning on a trip to the medicine cabinet and the bottle of Ambien. Harry threw an arm around my middle, keeping me on the bed. “Don’t.”

“I thought you might like a pill.”

“Nope.”

“Well then.” I ran my fingers through his too-long hair, still damp. “A massage? Story? Hot milk?”

“...massage,” he said, rolling onto his back. “Except with your mouth. A bit lower down.”

Rather direct from Harry, who was an enthusiastic initiator of sex if it came to a suggestive smile or wandering hands, but looked scandalised every time I made a verbal proposition. “Really. Now, is that orgasm-as-sleep-aid, or are you planning on dozing off before you get there?” The _again_ went unspoken.

“Do I have to chose?” he asked, taking me by surprise; I’d expected a heartfelt defense of his stamina.

“Ah-- ” I said. Only Harry made me fumble like this. “Why?”

He reached out, pressed his fingers against my mouth, pushing my lips into an unformed kiss. “It was... warm. Safe. Felt good. I didn’t have to be careful, for a few minutes. I just...” Fell asleep, wide open and vulnerable when I had him by the balls. Harry Dresden, in my hands, trusting me to take care of him.

I swallowed, feeling that idea work it’s way through me, moved his hand from my mouth. “You don’t have to chose,” I said, and my voice was rough. “Lie back and enjoy yourself, sweetheart. Count some sheep.” He flailed at me, and I caught his bony wrist, pressing it down against the bed. He let me, eyes dark and slipping closed as I teased him out of his boxers. “I’ve got you.”

“Mmmmrrr,” he said, and I rubbed circles on his belly, soothing, stroking down the spare strength of his thighs and back up again, lulling him with simple body contact, the warmth of my hands. “That’s right, just like that.” Nonsense words, but he liked my voice, provoked me into arguments just to hear me speak, tried to cajole me into singing along to the radio sometimes, but I’d spared him that so far. “There you go, Harry. That’s good.”

“Yehhhhhm. Uh.” He said, and patted me in return, heavy handed and drowsy. I took him in hand, stoked slower than our usual, feeling him half hard and lazy as I cradled his balls. That got a sigh, Harry’s head dropping sideways onto the pillow, and I felt the tension flow out of him. He was taken care of, offered up to me to look out for. I’d never felt so hungry for someone who couldn’t keep his eyes open. “Come here,” I said, and bent down.

Harry didn’t get all the way hard, even in my mouth. It should have been disconcerting; if you’d asked me earlier, I’d have told you that the reason I enjoy sucking Harry off is that he gets so _urgent_ , wide eyed like he’s surprised by his own arousal, hands prone to grab and push in a less than courteous manner. This time, his utter lack of urgency, his complete lethargy was doing more for me than I knew what to do with.

I licked down to his balls, and gave in to the temptation to wiggle out of my boxers, get a hand on myself.

Harry breathed out, long and slow, hotter than the filthiest phrases he’d ever whispered to me. It was an effort in multitasking, jacking myself fast and hard, the way I needed it, but staying slow and steady with him. I got it right, keeping the hesitations and errors in rhythm on my side of the equation. I sucked him in, slow, deep, waiting for a drawn out breath before I came back up, rolling his balls, gently, gently, against the palm of my hand.

Harry snored.

I made an undignified sound and pulled away, doing my best not to disturb him, resisting the urge to thrust into my own hands, trying to keep quiet. I hadn’t jerked off like that, desperate and stealthy, since I was a teenager.

I hadn’t come like that either, hand plastered across my mouth to muffle my enthusiasm, the afterglow channelled into alert monitoring, making sure no-one was stirring. Beside me, Harry slept on, features slack, restful.

I contemplated slipping off the bed. Taking a shower. The walk downstairs to my office.

I watched Harry snore.

“Five minutes,” I muttered, and stretched out beside him.


End file.
